The Magic Spell You Cast
by Liete
Summary: -US/fem!Fr- 'Her accent is thick, but only because she is too proud to change it—her English is perfect, he knows. He's heard it in unfortunate moments of distress, and if it means not always understanding her, he'd rather she speak with her very thick accent forever.'


**The Magic Spell You Cast  
**

**By: Liete**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters portrayed.**

* * *

"États-Unis."She removes a cigarette from a fancy metal tin and presses it between her red, red lips. She lights it then pauses, regarding him with a curious look. "Non, _Amérique_, what are you doing here?"

Her accent is thick, but only because she is too proud to change it—her English is perfect, he knows. He's heard it in unfortunate moments of distress and if it means not always understanding her, he'd rather she speak with her very thick accent forever.

He smiles—easy even though he's nervous—and motions to the chocolates he brought with him. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

Her gaze momentarily flickers to the chocolates then she quickly looks away, concentrating on her cigarette instead. She turns back to him just as she exhales, the smoke somehow suiting her. "Not well, Amérique."

"I know how the country is doing, but not _you_."

She folds her arms and purses her lips, which America watches again for a moment before he catches himself. His cheeks burn, but she takes a deep breath and relaxes her expression. She mutters things in French that he can't understand—and he makes a mental note to learn more French beyond "bonjour" and "au revoir" so he _can_ understand her—then lifts her free hand to press to the side of her head.

"I am surviving. I would never allow Angleterre the satisfaction otherwise."

"Oh. Well. You know we're working on a plan that will help you out!"

She huffs but finally her lips slide up into a smile. "Yes, I know. Thank you, monsieur hero."

His already warm face burns hotter, but he manages his own grin. He scratches at the back of his head and stares at the floor as he stutters out something ridiculous like "you're welcome very much" because he's too flustered to think straight. She carefully disposes of the cigarette and moves from the window to open her Victrola with delicate hands.

"Do you still like French music, mon chou?"

"Of course!"

His answer is too quick and too enthusiastic, and she gives him a small amused smile. He's not lying, though. He still fondly remembers their cultural exchange in the 20s and how it meant more time with her. French music then, he supposes, will always remind him of those times.

She puts on a record and returns to the window as it begins to play. She leans against it with a wistful expression on her face even as she begins to sing along.

"Quand il me prend dans ses bras, Il me parle tout bas je vois la vie en rose."

Her voice is lovely, but America still can't help but stare at her lips—red and full. He's known her for centuries and has always admired her country's rich culture, especially in comparison to his own. There is also the matter of how she is very beautiful and isn't afraid to show it. Her lips are always painted red if she can help it—a particular shade which America has tried to identify on the women in his own country with no luck.

She is also very beautiful within, though she keeps him at a careful distance.

The song continues, but she stops singing. She stares out the window a moment longer before crossing the room over to him. America sucks in a breath when she grabs one of his hands and places it around her. Such a move is bold even for her, and it makes his head spin. She lifts a hand to place on his shoulder, but she lowers her head.

"Mon cœur." She pauses, seemingly considering her words, though America doesn't understand them anyway. She lifts her head, smiling again. "You taught me the Charleston. Now I want to Lindy Hop."

He blinks and opens his mouth to protest. He wants to say something about how her pretty, expensive clothes are not suited for that kind of dance, but she is so close that it's not just her red lips that distract him. Her hair smells of roses and wine, and with his hand around her waist he can tell just how petite she is compared to him. His mouth feels like sandpaper, but he swallows, managing to wet his mouth enough to speak.

"…we'll need different music."

Her smile is sad for the quickest of moments then it's full of amusement as she pulls away. "Ah, of course. Such a smart boy."

America watches as she stops the record and treats it with such tender care before replacing it with a bit of Benny Goodman. He can't pretend to understand her, but he's already looking forward to having her in his arms.


End file.
